


I Always Knew

by perplexed



Category: Hat Films - Fandom, The Yogscast
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Character Death, Fire, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, M/M, Major Character Injury, Master/Slave, Minor Character Death, Period-Typical Homophobia, Prostitution, Terminal Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-13
Updated: 2016-01-13
Packaged: 2018-05-13 18:23:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5712484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perplexed/pseuds/perplexed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>'... Humans were originally created with four arms, four legs and a head with two faces. Fearing their power, Zeus split them into two separate parts, condemning them to spend their lives in search of their other halves... and when one of them meets the other half, the actual half of himself, whether he be a lover of youth or a lover of another sort, the pair are lost in an amazement of love and friendship and intimacy and one will not be out of the other's sight, as I may say, even for a moment...'</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a monster of a fic I wrote and edited during a night of madness in which I stayed up until 1pm the next day, basically.
> 
> If there's historical inaccuracies, apologies!
> 
> Each chapter is a different time period, warnings are in the notes for each chapter so you can skip ones if necessary.
> 
> Title is from the song of the same title by The Vaccines!
> 
> WARNINGS: Master/slave dynamic, Major Character Death

**450 AD, Rome, Italy**

“Silvanus, come here.”

The slave obeyed, coming to kneel at the feet of Regulus, the man he served. He averted his eyes as he had been taught to do, though he knew in his heart he wouldn’t be punished if he did raise his gaze to meet his master’s.

“You may stand. Come here.”

Regulus patted his lap with one hand, watching Silvanus come to sit upon his knee. The weight was comforting, and different from his other slaves in that Silvanus was the only one he maintained an intimate relationship with. This wasn’t unusual, in fact, it was commonplace - had Regulus had no relationship with anyone but his wife, eyebrows would have been raised.

“What does my master require?” Silvanus asked lightly, glad to have been relieved of his official duties by a request to stand instead of kneel.

“May I kiss you?”

“Yes, master…” Silvanus trailed off as Regulus’ mouth met his, warm and familiar. He hesitated before raising a hand to rest over the top of Regulus’ robes, pawing at his chest through the thick material. Silvanus still wasn’t used to the idea of being a concubine, having only been sold into the slave trade by a desperate family years earlier and having been put to work in fields and blacksmiths until he was sold to Regulus, who was a kindly, wealthy man who lived in the center of Rome and presided over several businesses.

Upon starting work for Regulus, he’d been brought into the bedchamber belonging to the man upon Regulus’ request. He’d been called ‘beautiful’, amongst other things, as he was surveyed by the man. Over time, Regulus had put his other concubines to work in other ways, the more intelligent of them going on to work in accounting for his businesses, leaving just Silvanus as the lone concubine.

He was flattered by this, even more flattered by the way Regulus doted on him. Despite being a slave still, Regulus showered him with affection and gifts, making sure he had a personal chamber where other slaves had to share, though more often than not he slept in Regulus’ chamber with him while his wife slept in her own. (It was fine, though. That was the way she preferred things, and Silvanus wondered if their marriage was at all healthy at times, judging from the shouting matches they seemed to have over every meal. Occasionally, he heard himself being cited as the reason for the marriage deteriorating, and he felt a pang of guilt in his chest.)

As Regulus broke away from the kiss, he ran his hands over Silvanus’ sides, drawing a laugh from the other man.

“Stop, master! You know I’m ticklish!” He protested, and with a grin on his face Regulus scooped his arms under and around Silvanus, carrying him to the plush bed in his chamber.

* * *

When Silvanus got the news about Regulus’ murder, he was sitting in his chamber as he regularly did on a slow day, popping cool grapes into his mouth and watching the world go by out of the window.

He fell to his knees as a Centurion informed him that Regulus had been killed, in cold blood. He wept and wept, entirely unconsolable. Regulus had been his entire world, and in an instant, he was gone.

Silvanus attended the funeral, though he stayed well away from Regulus’ grieving wife, knowing all too well her anger over his death as well, judging from the pots she’d smashed when she’d been told.

A week later, Silvanus was sold to a rival business owner, who put him back to regular work, building an aqueduct. Silvanus was glad for the distraction, but he still spent much of his nights lying awake, watching the clouds pass over the stars through the window, wondering whether Regulus was out there somewhere beyond the stars.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Terminal Illnesses, Minor Character Death, Major Character Death

**1000 AD, Cairo, Egypt**

It wasn’t entirely unusual in Egypt at the time to have not only multiple wives, but to also have romantic relationships with male friends. Senet and Rashid were no exception to this, and while they were both happily married to four and six women respectively, they maintained a romantic relationship of their own through the years, as well as being the closest of friends.

They even lived together, along with their wives and gaggles of children, just outside of the floodplains of the Nile river. Their house was small but homely, a villa which overlooked a small courtyard filled to the brim with fruit trees, with figs as big as their hands and pomegranates which Rashid would often pick for his children.

The shade of the courtyard was a perfect shelter on hot days during the summer, and it is there that the two men could most often be found when they weren’t working. Whether they were with their wives, their children, both or simply alone with each other, it was their favourite spot to inhabit when the sun beat down on the earth around them.

“Pass me a fig, Senet?” Rashid was lying under the shade of the trees when his friend and lover approached from his left. Senet rolled his eyes, but picked a couple of ripe figs from the canopy above him and handed them to Rashid before sitting down next to him.

“Anku is looking for you, she says one of your children is feverish.” Anku was one of the slave girls they had in the house, a slim little waif of a girl even though the two men made sure she was well fed and watered.

“Yes? I’m sure it can wait. One of the children is always suffering with a fever, they’ll be better in a few days as long as they’re given enough water.” Rashid twisted the stem off one of the figs that was handed to him before biting into it, a little of the juice making its way onto his white cotton shirt.

“Maut-Mai will kill you for getting fig on your shirt,” Senet leaned over and carefully brushed what he could of the juice from Rashid’s shirt, smiling fondly as he did so. Maut-Mai was one of Rashid’s wives and arguably the sternest of the lot.

Rashid shrugged a shoulder and carried on munching noisily at the fig until it was gone. Senet leaned against Rashid’s side, smiling fondly even as the other man chewed loudly.

* * *

Rashid regretted not going to his child’s aid that day. Over the night, the child’s fever got worse and worse, until they were crying loud enough for the whole city to hear them. Boils appeared over their body and they vomited every few minutes until their stomach was empty of the milk and honey they’d been fed.

The next day, his child passed. Mercifully, their passing was peaceful, but that did little to salve Rashid’s conscience. Unwilling to show such perceived weakness in front of his wives and children, Rashid sought out Senet instead, finding him sitting underneath the same pomegranate tree, eyes closed and his lips pursed.

“Senet…” Rashid started, before falling to his knees and sobbing quietly. Senet opened his eyes at the sound of his name and leaned forwards somewhat, enough for him to get his arms around Rashid’s shoulders.

“I know,” he said softly. Having lost one of his wives in childbirth, Senet knew the pain which came with losing someone so dear. They sat there in silence save for Rashid’s crying, which slowly but surely stopped.

* * *

Around a week later, most of the household was sick. Coughing and sneezing, despite the hot weather, were de rigour, and most of the people in the house had high fevers, save for Rashid, a few of the slave girls and two of his wives. By far the most sick was Senet, however.

Rashid approached his friend’s bedroom and knocked lightly on the door. A slave girl opened the door for him, and he stepped inside, allowing the young girl out before he did so. Upon laying eyes on Senet, Rashid put his hand over his mouth.

Whereas his child had had a few boils here and there, mostly concentrated on their neck and under their arms, Senet looked almost entirely alien. Boils rose on his bare chest and arms, and he let out a rattling cough, forcing a smile when he locked eyes with Rashid.

“Come, sit.” He managed to get out, gesturing weakly to the chair next to the bed. Rashid sat down, feeling uncomfortable. “Are you alright, friend?”

“Do not worry yourself about me. You must concentrate on getting better, Senet.” Rashid reached out to wipe the sweat from Senet’s brow, his fingers coming away wet and clammy. Senet met his eyes again and gave another small smile.

“Please take care of them when I am gone,” Senet said quietly, extending his hand and taking hold of Rashid’s.

“You- I will not need to, you will still be here.”

“I won’t. I fear I get weaker each minute that passes, I am not sure I can fight for much longer…” Senet coughed again. “So promise me, promise you’ll care for my wives and children, they are yours now to love and care for.”

“Don’t die,” Rashid pleaded. “You can’t die! This isn’t fair…”

Senet let out a weak chuckle before another, more vicious, cough shook his body vigorously. He gasped for air, and Rashid squeezed his hand lightly.

Rashid stayed by his partner’s side through the night, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest, listening to the rattling in his lungs. No one disturbed them - not even Senet’s wives or children. They were alone.

“Rashid?” Senet croaked, and Rashid leaned forwards attentively. “I will still watch over you, but I will be among the stars. You will never be without me, just promise me you won’t forget.”

“You will shine the brightest of them all,” Rashid sighed.

* * *

From then on, Rashid never looked at life the same way again. He lived recklessly and vicariously, always made sure to kiss his children and wives good night, and spent much of his nights talking up at the stars from the window. Sometimes, he swore he heard the stars whisper back to him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Fire, Major Character Injury, Major Character Death

**1666, London, England**

“Can you smell burning?”

Ross turned over in bed, facing his partner who was sitting on the edge of the bed, sniffing the air curiously.

“No. Come back to bed.” He extended a hand and ran it over Smith’s naked back, fingers walking over his skin.

It was illegal, of course, to be homosexual at that time. That made their living together under the same roof a little risky, but with two chambers and the front of running a leather curing business in the downstairs of the house together, few people raised eyebrows at their living arrangements. They didn’t see behind the back bedroom’s curtains, when the two men were embracing upon the rough sheets of Ross’ bed.

“No, I’m sure I smell burning, Ross.”

“You’re imagining things, Smith. If you’re so concerned, I will check downstairs and just come back and tell you that nothing is aflame.”

“Fine.” Smith finally succumbed, lying back on the bed. A feather poked up through his pillow and prodded him in the ear, and Smith reached up to pluck it from where it was sticking through the cover, discarding it to the side of the bed.

“I’m shocked there isn’t enough feathers to cover a goose down there,” Ross quipped. He was leaning up on one elbow, looking over Smith’s face in the darkness.

“Shush,” Smith said, though he was smiling.

* * *

They awoke a few hours later to a strong smell of burning wood and the crackling of the building around them. From outside, the light from flames licking up the front of their home lit the bedroom with a bright orange glow. Smith was the first to wake, coughing through the stifling smoke.

“Ross! Ross!” He cried, shaking the man next to him viciously. Eventually, Ross stirred and then woke up, sitting bolt upright and coughing.

“What on earth is going on?”

“There’s a fire! I _told_ you there was, and you didn’t listen to me!” Not caring who saw them at that point, Smith stood and flung open the curtains, only to be faced by what was practically a wall of flames. “We need to get out of here, somehow. Any way we can find.”

“Calm down, we’ll be okay,” Ross tried to reason, but his voice had shot up an octave out of fear. He clambered out from underneath the sheets and stumbled around, pulling on clothes as he went. “Come on, Smith! Put some clothes on, let’s go!”

Smith panicked as he pulled his trousers and shirt on, the wool on his legs making them itch under the heat from outside the window. As soon as he was close to dressed, shirt hanging open and done up wrong, Ross grabbed his hand and tugged him out of the door to their bedroom, out onto the landing. Thankfully, the fire hadn’t made its way into the house yet, but getting out of the front door was impossible thanks to the flames licking up it.

Losing his footing on the way down the stairs, Ross stumbled, tripped, and hit his head on the windowsill at the bottom of the steps. Smith cried out, reaching out to stop him falling, but he wasn’t quick enough. He watched the blood bloom out from the back of Ross’ head, making a sticky red puddle on the ground which congealed quickly in the heat.

“Ross! Come on, get up!” Smith shouted over the crackling of the flames. He hadn’t even noticed that one of Ross’ legs was now the wrong way around, bent in all the wrong places.

“I can’t.” Ross coughed again, spluttering blood down the front of his white shirt. “Go. Go without me, save yourself. Please, Smith. Leave me here.”

Smith sat on the floor next to Ross, caressing his hand. He felt tears welling up inside him, and before he could stop it, they were spilling out of his eyes.

“I can’t leave you here! I love you!”

“Go, please. I love you too, but there’s no hope for me. Even if I get out, they’ll amputate my leg, and I probably won’t survive it.” Ross reached a weak hand up and placed it on Smith’s cheek. “Go now. Think of me, but save yourself.”

Smith stubbornly stayed at Ross’ side until the flames started to spread across the ceiling above him, beams creaking and cracking as they threatened to fall. Ross had long since closed his eyes and fallen silent, but Smith was determined not to leave him until the latest juncture.

He finally stood and ran through the house, collecting up an official looking picture of himself and Ross from the kitchen at the back of the house before bursting out onto the cobbled street their house and business backed onto.

* * *

Smith found himself married a few years later, with a young child. Nothing was the same though, and never would be again. Sometimes he’d look to the sky and cry, and when his wife asked him why he’d lie and say he missed his mother, who had died when he was eleven, when in reality his heart was still beating with the rhythm Ross used to tap his fingers to.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, Prostitution, Major Character Injury, Major Character Death

**1878-1884, London, England**

“Leave him here with me while you get your tickets.” A tall, kindly woman spoke, clapping her hand onto Smith’s shoulder. “He’ll be safe with me.” He looked around the busy entryway to the train station and, for some reason, trusted this woman.

“Yes, mother, she’ll look after me,” Smith said gleefully. It was his twelfth birthday, and he was confident in his abilities to be left alone for a minute with a stranger. If worst came to worst, he could always run, he was good at that.

“Alright…” Smith’s mother looked the woman up and down. She was decked in finery and seemed reliable enough. She was hardly a ruffian, so, albeit reluctantly, Smith’s mother followed his father towards the ticket booths, which were hidden behind long queues.

A few moments passed before a large, threatening man wandered up to them. Smith puffed his chest out, hoping his above-average height would scare the man away. The woman turned to this stranger and whispered something to him, and before Smith could protest he was being scooped up off the ground and carried out of the station to a waiting carriage.

He kicked and bit and punched, trying to scream until his mouth was covered by a large, foul smelling hand.

“Shut up, boy, and stop wriggling or we’ll have your guts for garters for Mary here.”

* * *

Six years passed, and Smith was finally resigned to his fate. After several foiled escape plots over the years, he just accepted that his fate was to be a prostitute in a brothel somewhere in London. Thanks to his constant trying to escape, he hadn’t been allowed out of the brothel alone, and thus barely ever went out, and when he did, he didn’t go far. He thought maybe they were in Chelsea though, judging by the high class clients they had coming in constantly.

Sighing as he looked wistfully out of the window, down at the gas lamps that lit the street below, Smith pushed his hair back. He heard the door to the dormitory open but paid it no attention until one of the working girls put a hand on his shoulder.

“Mary just bought a new guy in, maybe you’ll be better at comforting him than the girls are,” she said. Smith couldn’t remember her name, (girls came and went, most of them ending up murdered or so brutally beaten they couldn’t survive it. Smith was glad he’d never been so much as backhanded by a client, but he thought maybe that was thanks to his broad shoulders and imposing height,) but she had a lilting Eastern European accent.

“Fine, I’m coming.” Smith sighed once more as he got up off the floor, straightening out his grey shirt. Inwardly, he felt a pang of excitement at not being the only male in the otherwise all-girl establishment, but he also felt a shock of sadness go through him. He knew all too well the pain of being taken from your family.

The other man, Smith discovered, hadn’t come willingly. He’d been dragged in off the streets by Mary under the promise of getting the poor man some food and a drink, only to find himself slung into the world of prostitution which drove London’s underworld.

“I don’t want to stay here!” Smith heard the man shouting as he approached the room on the top floor where he was to ply his trade. “Poor I might be, but I’m not stupid!”

Knocking on the door, Smith waited until the door was opened. Mary herself was standing there, gnarled fingers covered with decadent jewellery. She was the mistress of not only this brothel, but several others in London. Smith had come to regard her as something of a mother figure - aside from the obvious trauma she caused to young girls and boys, she wasn’t a terrible person. Maybe that was just Stockholm Syndrome talking, though.

Smith introduced himself politely, coming to stand in front of the seat where the stranger was sitting. Behind him stood the same bulky man who had captured Smith when he was only twelve. Thankfully, the boy they’d brought in looked to be around Smith’s age, though it was hard to tell if he was younger or not thanks to the dirt grained into his face.

“I’m sure you’ll find my humble establishment more than agreeable given the chance. You will be fed and watered, and will be able to bathe whenever you would like.” Mary tapped her foot against the wooden parquet flooring.

“I refuse to be in a bordello any longer, amongst these dollymops!” The stranger stood, but was forced back into his seat by the man standing behind him.

“Either you join us willingly, or we make you join by force. Just ask little Master Smith here, he’ll tell you that while we’re agreeable, if you try to escape, you will be harshly punished.”

Smith glanced between the stranger and Mary, and nodded solemnly.

“It’s easier to just let it happen, friend.”

* * *

A few months passed, and Smith learned a lot about the once stranger. He was called Ross, and had been homeless for a few months when Mary had found him panhandling for money and food. His familial home had burnt down with his parents and brother inside it, and he was the only one to escape the blaze. He was eighteen, and liked ham for breakfast but hadn’t had it in eons.

Smith discovered that Ross was as kind as he looked beneath all of the dirt and grime that had been scrubbed into his skin when he first appeared at the brothel. He can remember hearing sobbing that night as Ross took his first customer, and Smith remembers his stomach churning in sympathy.

“Do you think we’ll ever leave this place?” Ross asked idly one summer’s day. They were both sitting on the floor in front of Smith’s favourite window, watching people milling around Chelsea in their finery, seemingly unaware of what went on behind the door of the townhouse.

“Hm. Perhaps once we are too old to work.” Smith laughed softly, though he sounded sorrowful. Ross extended a hand and placed it on top of Smith’s. While relationships between the working girls and boys were forbidden by Mary, many of them secretly indulged in kisses behind the closed door of the dormitory and shared beds when Mary was away. Smith could still remember his first proper kiss, with a chubby little Welsh girl who went by the name of Anna. She was still around, though Smith only saw her occasionally on account of them working different shifts in the brothel.

“Sad, but true,” Ross lamented as his eyes followed a plush looking carriage down the street. “How did you end up here?”

Smith pursed his lips. “I was taken, as a child. Brought here, and I haven’t left since, despite my best efforts.”

“Ah.” Ross fell silent. He was grateful at least that he’d been of age when they had taken him. Thank God for small mercies.

“Yes…” Smith sighed and leaned his head down onto Ross’ chest, putting much of his weight onto the other man. Ross allowed him to. After all, Smith was the closest friend he had in that hellhole, and seeing the red-haired boy made him feel a little better, even after particularly rough clients. Smith would stroke his hair as he cried in the middle of the night, would help to clean blood from his trousers and underwear, would just generally go above and beyond what even the closest of friends would have done. Ross thought that Smith was one of a kind.

* * *

“Psst.” Smith nudged Ross gently one night, stirring him from his deep sleep.

“Wha’?” Ross mumbled, wiping the sleep from his eyes and letting out a yawn.

“I have a crazy idea that might just work to get us out of here,” Smith whispered, his tone excited. “I’ve been looking at the plans of the house when Mary isn’t around, and there’s a basement we can escape through! If we could pull this off, we’d be free, wouldn’t that be grand?”

Ross rolled his eyes a little. Every week it seemed Smith had another plan to get them out of there, but none of them ever worked for one reason or another. “It would be grand, but…”

Smith flopped onto the bed, frowning when the metal frame creaked loudly. He reached up and carded his hand through Ross’ hair, newly cut short.

“Your hair suits you like that,” Smith said with a nod, and Ross leaned down to steal a kiss from him, as he had been doing for months. Grinning, Smith pulled Ross into a proper kiss, lapping at his bottom lip a couple of times before pulling back.

“Smith?” Came a voice from the doorway, which creaked open a little, a shard of light making its way in from the lit hallway. In the doorway stood one of the younger girls, one of them who looked up to Ross and Smith for protection which they gladly provided.

“Lisabeth? What is it?” Smith sat up and rubbed his eyes, stifling a yawn.

“A client’s asking for you, he’s getting quite angry with the girls downstairs.” The girl sounded concerned, and from downstairs Smith heard a crash.

Hurriedly, he got out of bed and pulled on trousers over his long johns, slinging a shirt over his shoulders and hurriedly buttoning it up.

“I’ll be back soon,” he said with a nod to Ross, leaning over to kiss the top of his head.

* * *

Smith never came back. The man had taken Smith into one of the private rooms up on the third floor, belted him, and cracked him over the head with a heavy marble and metal candlestick.

Ross spent most nights alone at the window, staring up at the sky with its multitudinous of points of light. He wondered if Smith was watching over him. Either way, he hoped Smith was away from the torment he’d suffered through every day. Ross longed to join him, wherever he was.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Period-Typical Homophobia

**1964, New York, USA.**

Ross had heard good things about the Judson Dance Theatre, just gossip on the grapevine of the circles he moved in as an artist, but as he took his seat in the performance space he was apprehensive for some reason. He couldn’t put his finger on why, perhaps it was his lack of knowledge about dance, Ross reasoned. He tapped his fingers against his thigh as he awaited the show’s start.

Once the lights dimmed in the room, Ross looked up from his feet and focused in on the makeshift stage. Upon it was a man, who had to be well over six foot tall as he dwarfed the woman with him. They performed to a composition unlike any Ross had heard before, (he later found out it was by a composer named John Cage, who did strange things with radios and pianos,) and Ross was transfixed. He couldn’t take his eyes off the man as he moved fluidly across the stage, eyes closed, bare feet skirting the edge of the stage every so often.

After the performance and an unexpected period of time where the performers asked the room for criticism, Ross made a beeline for the man. He was inexplicably drawn to him, and as he approached him, Ross noticed that, oh no, he was handsome as well as talented. He had to quickly come up with something to say, because the man was in the midst of raising an eyebrow at him when Ross extended his hand for a handshake.

The stranger politely shook his hand, before speaking. “I haven’t seen you at the space before. Are you a journalist? Because I don’t do interviews.”

“Oh, no, no.” The stranger had a thick New York accent which contrasted with Ross’ East London accent, something he still couldn’t shake despite having moved to New York five years previously.

“Good. In that case, I’m Alex Smith, but you can call me Smith.” Smith was beaming at Ross, his lips upturned in a grin. “And who might you be?”

“Ross. Ross Hornby.”

“Bitchin’.” Smith was still grinning, and it put Ross at ease to ask the question that was on the tip of his tongue.

“I’m an artist, and I wondered if you’d like to be painted sometime.”

“Oh, really?” Smith moved to sit on a nearby crate in the warehouse space, patting the one next to him. “Sit down and we can talk about this.”

* * *

Two weeks passed before Ross saw Smith again, but this time it was in his small Manhattan studio apartment. It was small, but enough for just Ross, with room for his easel and painting supplies. Smith had let himself in, and Ross had smiled faintly when he’d seen the other man walking towards him.

Instead of shaking his hand, appearing more at ease now he was out of the performance space, Smith leaned in to kiss Ross’ cheek, pulling him into a brief hug. As soon as they broke apart, Smith was talking.

“So how you gonna paint me?” He asked. He was chewing bubblegum, and Ross could smell the strong fruity flavour on his breath.

“Uh… Just get comfortable, however you like, wherever you like, and I’ll work around you,” Ross said with a nod, watching as Smith dropped into his armchair and relaxed back with his trademark grin.

* * *

From then on in, Ross painting Smith became something of a regular occurrence. They’d spend hours afterwards together, just snacking on junk food and perhaps even grabbing pancakes in the morning from the nearby waffle house.

As time went on, their relationship developed too. It went from a purely platonic, working relationship where Ross would attend Smith’s performances and Smith would let Ross paint him, to a friendship full of camaraderie and friendly teasing, and further still to the point where they shared kisses in private and knowing glances in public places.

Homosexuality was viewed as highly immoral and a mental illness, so walking around hand in hand was out of the question. While they were in private however, they spent much of their time wrapped up in each other.

“I’m only halfway to paradise, so near yet so far away,” Smith sang as he stirred scrambled eggs in a pan in Ross’ kitchenette. Ross watched him from across the studio, still lying in bed. Smith was shirtless, toned body breaking into a little jokey jig as he sang. Ross laughed loudly and unabashedly, like he always did around Smith. “Surf’s up!” Smith called as he took the pan off the heat, tipping half of the eggs onto one plate and the other half onto another, mismatched, one.

Ross finally got out of bed and paced quickly across the apartment, closing the gap between himself and Smith finally. He held the other man around his waist, resting his head on Smith’s shoulder before turning his head to kiss at the side of his neck.

Smith smiled softly and carried on singing, swaying with Ross as he did so. Ross allowed himself to be swayed, letting out a chuckle as Smith changed the song to something by Buddy Holly.

“Let’s eat,” Ross murmured, and Smith nodded, though he carried on humming as he walked to the table with the plates after Ross released him. He placed the plates down carefully and sat on ‘his’ side of the table.

They ate in comfortable silence, and it wasn’t until Smith got up to wash the dishes that Ross followed him, wrapping his arms around the other’s middle again.

“She was only sixteen, only sixteen; I loved her so,” Smith sang out, and Ross thought it was a sound he could never ever get sick of.

They stood in the kitchen, singing and humming along to various pop tunes together, swaying long after the dishes were done. Ross grabbed Smith’s hand and twirled him around on the spot, Smith taking the initiative and grasping at Ross’ hands.

“Wanna learn how to dance for real? I learned ballroom before I started doing modernist things.” Smith was grinning, and when he was smiling like that, Ross couldn’t say no.

* * *

When Ross left for England on a vacation to visit his family, Smith pouted and insisted they spent the night together beforehand. Ross ended up leaving with an extra shirt in his suitcase, one belonging to Smith which smelled of his cologne.

* * *

It was while he was at home that Ross decided to broach the subject of homosexuality with his parents, just out of curiosity. They put two and two together quickly, and expressed their disgust at their son’s possible ‘deviance’.

Ross longed for Smith’s embrace then, longed to hold and be held, longed to be away from his homophobic parents as they berated him and told him he was disgusting.

Ross slept uneasy that night, and woke to a doctor unceremoniously prodding his shoulder to wake him.

“Your parents tell me you’ve been expressing desire in… Homosexuality.” The doctor spat the word as though it was poison on his tongue.

* * *

Ross never returned to America. He was imprisoned for supposedly expressing interest in men, when in reality he’d just asked a simple question of his parents opinion on homosexuality.

Smith pined for Ross. He stopped dancing, stopped singing while he cooked. He missed him terribly and knew nothing of what happened to him, so he mourned as though Ross were dead, looking up at the nighttime sky and pondering if Ross was out there, somewhere.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Near Death Experience

**2016, Bristol, England.**

Smith rolled his chair over to Ross’ desk, just for the express purpose of annoying the other man while he edited. He was dipping his hand into a packet of crisps, popping one into his mouth silently as he cut and clipped captures. Smith sat and watched him for a second, before stealing a crisp from the bag.

Ross rolled his eyes and pulled his headphones off, letting them hang from his neck.

“What?” He asked, tone fond.

“Let’s go and get dinner, and get home; this can wait until tomorrow.”

* * *

Ross and Smith piled into his car and set off towards home, since the fridges at YogTowers were mostly empty, and what there was wasn’t theirs anyway. Home was the best option; after all, they’d been working too hard all day and Trott had gone home hours ago after finishing editing. They came to a crossroads, and for some reason Smith felt compelled to extend his hand and link his and Ross’ fingers together. Ross smiled softly, checked both directions, and pulled out into the road.

A screech of tires, and suddenly Ross felt like he was falling, the world fading to black around him.

“Ross! Are you okay!?”

The familiar voice already sounded distant. He felt like he was continuing to fall through all of time and space, hurtling through pitch black darkness. The void seemed to fill his lungs as he gasped for air, and when he tried to open his eyes all he could see was darkness littered with tiny specks of light.

It was familiar, yet not at all. Ross had a strange sense of deja vu as he stood up in the darkness and started to walk. It was like he was on autopilot and knew exactly where he was going. He felt like the darkness was completely consuming him.

Ross realised he had been there before, had felt this before, tens, hundreds, maybe even thousands of times. He felt the burning pain of taking his first breath, exhaling a sharp cry every time. It was new but familiar all in one, different every time but somehow the same, the start of something which would never be complete.

Ross felt the falling sensation again and he was tumbling awkwardly through space as though the ground had been slid out from under his feet. He could see himself growing up, from newborn to toddler to teenager to adult to elderly to dead, dead, dead; every time the cycle started anew with the same piercing cry.

Faces and voices and touches all passed through his mind’s eye, but there was only one that was constant, always there, always pulled away just as Ross came close to touching it. Smith. Smith, with his auburn hair, his indomitable smile, his broad shoulders… He was the only constant through all of Ross’ lives, always there, so close and yet so far away.

Smith, the only anchor point in the darkness as Ross watched time race away in front of him. Smith took on different guises, but Ross knew it was always him. Deep down, he just knew. He could hear Smith’s voice then, crying out through the darkness, a hand extended to stop Ross’ head hitting the dashboard, tearing away the bright light which was irresistibly close to Ross’ fingertips.

“Ross, what the fuck, Jesus Christ!”

From a thousand broken up pieces, Smith came together before him, complete and whole.

“Ross, are you alright, mate? Talk to me.”

Ross opened his eyes slowly and turned his head. He was faced with Smith and looked deep into his eyes, the same eyes he’d been staring longingly into for thousands of years.

“Tell me you’re alright mate? You didn’t hit the car, we’re okay.”

“You saved me,” Ross mumbled.

It was Smith, the only constant anchor throughout all of time and space.

“Of course I did, you stupid twat, pulling out without looking!”

Smith’s hands were shaking with shock, Ross observed as the other man reached for his hand again. Ross felt strangely at peace, as though something that had been ticking in his mind since the beginning of time itself had stopped its movement.

The gates to Ross’ mind slammed shut behind him, and suddenly the world seemed to be in more vivid colour, sharper and more in focus too, as though he’d lived his life without glasses when he actually needed them. Smith’s burgundy shirt was a deeper red, his hair a more flame-like auburn than ever before. The sounds around them faded back in as well, and Ross vaguely registered the sound of car horns behind him.

He tugged Smith into a one-armed hug across the console, turning his head and breathing in the scent of Smith’s hair, of shampoo, aftershave and styling product. As he pulled back, he realised he remembered little except for falling, and Smith, constantly there, always near.

Slowly but surely, Ross pulled his car from the middle of the junction and pulled off down a side road, parking up and rubbing his hands over his face.

Smith was the one to pull Ross into a hug across the console that time, which was unusual for him. Ross put it down to the shock of nearly getting into a car accident. Smith didn’t seem to care who saw them, and in that moment, neither did Ross. He was content to just sit there for a while and regain his composure.

He breathed in Smith’s scent again, letting out a breath Ross didn’t know he’d been holding. Smith rubbed his back before pulling away and planting a soft kiss to his lips.

“I love you,” Ross spoke softly.

“Love you, too. Now let’s get some dinner before I starve to death.”

Ross put the car into gear and pulled away, more carefully that time, together with Smith for good. Overhead, stars glittered and twinkled almost knowingly, shining through the light pollution of the city and guiding the men towards their home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, that's all she wrote, capt'n!
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this, it's the first long fic I've written for the fandom and I'm quite proud of it!


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